


Come Together

by ryucreates



Series: Like Playdoh [1]
Category: Original Work, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, For a second, Hurt/Comfort, I guess., M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other, Polyamorous Character, They're cool, but its from the eyes of an original character, clone troopers yo, he's not here tho cause i have other enemies n shit, ill add tags as they become relevant, im working on it, multiple of them, oblivious idiots, slight references to geonosis in the first chapter, that ship that count dooku has is in here too, this is like a travel through star wars canon (ish)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23725759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryucreates/pseuds/ryucreates
Summary: It’s rather cold, where they sit.There’s not much left.No time, no land, no friends.There’s nothing for them anymore.Maybe they’ll leave.Maybe they’ll remember.
Relationships: Original Clone Trooper Character(s) & Original Character(s), Original Clone Trooper Character(s)/Original Clone Trooper Character(s)
Series: Like Playdoh [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708918
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically my first time posting, so if anything looks odd or weird I'd appreciate your advice. I'm planning on having this be about 30k long by the end, but updates might be slow. Right now it's just the prologue cause my beta hasn't finished their stuff yet so. This is it? It should grow. Kinda.

It’s cold on this planet, cold enough to get underneath the armor, get through the thermal pads, and land safely on their skin. It’s cold enough that their troup is audible, even through the brisk winds and sheets of hail raining down on the cavern’s roof. It’s cold enough that their master, ineffable as she usually is, is curled up sideways against the wall, shivering minutely through the thick fabric draped across her shoulders. 

They don’t usually mind the cold. It’s refreshing, mostly. The winds, the drafts of warmth from the feeble fire, the quiet bickering from their squad. It’s a homey cave, big enough to fit three of them, spread out from toe to eartip. Most of the available space has been taken up already, not that they mind.

A hailstone had bounced off the lip of the cave, rolling to a stop at their toes. The icy caress of it against the pads of their feet got them to pause, looking down at the innocuous ball. It was shapen haphazardly, tossed about in the winds before coming to a rest on the floor of the cavern. They supposed it was poetic, the way the planet’s atmosphere shaped even the smallest of objects, for the hailstone fit perfectly between the conjuncture of their toes. If they had tried, they could have lifted their foot up and about their head, still holding the stone safely, and could have caught a closer glimpse of its icy shell. They did not, however, content to sit cross legged as they were, with their tunic draped across the thin material of their pants. 

It’s that moment of peace, the still and quiet, that gets them to thinking about the past. It’s hard to know where it all started, the war, the wind, the freezing cold, the frying warmth. The pain of separation, sent spiralling, the relief of being found. It’s hard to understand linearly. It’s hard to conjure inside their mind. They suppose it doesn’t matter now. They have their master, their troup, their feeble tunic that folds in places they rather it didn’t. They have all they need.


	2. Monkey Finger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bic ni skana'din : "that really ticks me off"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah hey look im back. first actual chapter, are yall proud of me? i am.

_ /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ _

Clutch is usually better than this. He’s usually the first to notice, the first to act. He supposes he should be ashamed, his reflexes left to waste like so many of his soldiers ( his friends ). He should have seen the gleam in the director’s eye, the sharp and unnatural appearances of Kaminoan scientists, drifting among filtered glass. He should have noticed the disappearances, the quiet in the dorms, the barracks, the cafeteria. It’s like Geonosis all over again.

He hasn’t been out in the field since then, sitting here on this derelict and empty planet, looking out the window to rain, rain, ocean, and more rain. It’s been three months, and every day has started and ended with quiet, secluded bouts of staring into the rain. He’s getting lax. 

This is why the announcement surprises him, jumping out of his comm unit like a clanker with a gun. He startles, fumbles the unit under his bed, and spends the next two minutes fishing his hand around like an idiot underneath the sleeping compartment. It's times like these that he misses his old barrack. He would sleep in a tiny sliding cot, with hundreds of his brothers spanning the room on either side, ladders and rails climbing up cubicled walls like the combs of a wasp nest. 

He was assigned a new room after being . . . decommissioned. Even after three months, the word leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It’s vast, and so empty. There’s a single bed, one that doesn't fold into itself like his old one did. There’s a desk, a chair, a reading light, and a wardrobe full of plain grey uniforms he doesn’t wear. He doesn’t do much. He doesn’t talk much. The death of an entire squad will do that to you. He’s lucky, he supposes as he clasps the cybernetic leg on, twisting it into the empty socket where his knee once was. It’s a mercy he only lost a leg, and not his life. It’s luck, it’s mercy, it’s fortune, it’s bearing down on him like the tank that ruined his life. 

How can you be happy, how can you be lucky, when the only reason you’re alive is because someone else died?

How could he bear to live knowing that so many of his men, his soldiers, his friends, died on the battlefield because he failed?

He should have seen the attack coming, should have made plans, should have done so much but he didn’t do any of it, and he’s so stupid, so dense, so worthless because he couldn’t even save one member of his team, why was he the one to live? Why him? Of all people, why choose the faulty trooper to survive?

He knicks his chin as he shaves. It’s not like it matters though. He’s already got scars on his face. 

Maybe he should get a haircut, the top is really getting too long, when he dons his armor ( if he dons his armor ) it’ll get into his eyes. He should try to cut it himself, and he does, but his hands are shaky. Maybe tomorrow. 

Getting dressed is a chore, shoving warm leg through pants, shove cold leg through pants, pull uniform jacket over tee, button, clasp, methodical movements that take over the mind until the warzone inside his head stops pounding in the rhythm of marching men and he can finally breathe again, when did he stop breathing, when did the world narrow down to his blood splattered hands, oh god, why is there so much blood, it’s everywhere -

He cut himself while shaving.

It’s hard, stopping himself. Sometimes it's a hassle to even get out of bed. He can’t move, can’t breath, can’t speak. It’s the PTSD, according to the physical therapist he saw weeks ago. It makes his hands jumpy, makes his leg hurt, even though he doesn’t have a leg there anymore. 

It’s just his mind playing tricks.

He washes his hands, dries them on his pants, and stops in the middle of the room.

Why would there be radio silence, and then suddenly a message? He hasn’t been informed of anything, hasn’t been told to pack for anything, to do anything, to see anyone. He doesn’t get it. Why reach out through a secure comm line when there’s the intercoms? Why leave a destination, a time, and a short message about some vague progress?

He checks his unit again, there’s five more minutes until he’s late, for whatever this is.

Still, he makes his way down to the medical ward. Maybe the progress they spoke of was on a better replacement for his leg. Maybe he’ll be redeployed, or evaluated or - 

There’s three people in the ward, all troopers, all in the same grey uniform. 

What?

_ /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ _

Alpha-1449 knew that he was in some deep shit as soon as he stepped off the shuttle back onto Kamino. He hadn’t been back since the incident, the one that left him with cybernetic eyes and a loss of his old position. The researchers hardly even let him leave in the first place, he had to go through evaluation after evaluation just for them to declare him safe for off planet work. 

It was a load of bullshit. Hence his feelings of dread. 

Look, can’t a guy get some time to himself? It’s not like he’s got a family or . . . anything to go back to, anyone waiting for him, there’s nothing at all, just a dead end job he never even wanted in the first place, never needed, the pension and the barracks and the family he would have had had he not been such a  _ fucking  _ _screw up_ that even the scientists who fucking  _ created  _ him threw him out onto the streets after seeing his ugly fucking body and. And. 

He doesn’t know what they want this time. 

Does he want to know?

Is it even worth it? He could leave, he could turn on his heel and leave, go back to his shitty job on the shitty cruiser with the shitty paycheck and the shitty quarters and the shitty everything, but even shit is better than whatever the fuck the scientists wanted with him this time, last time it was his eyes, this time it could be his arms, his legs, his heart, whatever. 

It’s not like he wasn’t already their creation. It’s not like his body is his own, like he doesn’t wake up and gag over dry meals knowing that his stomach and his body was created in a tube, artificially made to be somehow superior, like he wasn’t just a test. Like he wasn’t a failed test. A crossed out portion on a report, barely worth mentioning that his bones snapped at the lightest touch, that his first few weeks of life were excruciating and awful and horrible until the scientists split open his body and shoved metal and pins and pipes into his organs, his bones, holding everything together while he felt like he was tearing apart. 

It was the last nail in the coffin for him, losing his eyes. He had known that they were practically useless anyways but the fact that they were cut out of his head and discarded like trash was. It was like they were never his to begin with.

Nothing was ever his to begin with.

Not his clothes, his skin, his own flesh and blood. Not the halls he walks through, not the soft pad of his shoes against the tiled floor. Not the jacket that scraped against his skin, not the dirtied pants he refused to wash. 

It was pointless to ever think that he was free. Free of the job, free of the fighting, the tears and the dying. Free of knowing that his only purpose was to die on a battlefield, clutching a gun that would never do anything good for him, free of knowing that somehow he even fucked that up. Free of everything. 

He’s not paying attention. He doesn’t care. 

There’s a room, a grey instead of the eye searing white, and he’s got a pile of the same grey in his hands. 

It’s a uniform, the simple grey cloth that every clone here wears, every officer dons in the morning, waking up to brush their teeth and put on meaningless grey bullshit like it means something, like it means something other than that those who wear it are a tool to be used, some expendable item that’s replaced by tenfold before they even fall dead. 

He doesn’t want to wear it.

It doesn’t matter in the end though. It’s not like he ever had a choice. 

He puts it on.

Walks out the grey room, back into the white. 

Walks like the shoulders aren’t crumpled at the sides. Like the cuffs don’t cover his hands, clenched tight into fists, little crescents of bloodless skin showing where nails flex and move. 

Walks like he’s important again.

Like whatever he’s needed for isn’t his death.

Like he’s worth more than himself.

_ /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ _

People are getting deployed. Again. 

Pope is not being deployed. Again.

Apparently he’s going to be on a special mission this time. He’s going to have a team, a squad, a family of sorts. 

He’s excited.

Kind of.

His last squad was rude, they were all smaller and faster than him and that wouldn’t bother him, that doesn’t bother him, he’s used to only the Kaminoans being taller than him, it’s what they made him for anyways. He’s there to lift heavy machinery, operate huge vehicles, and help out trapped soldiers. He likes the helping part. He has no problems helping, in fact he thinks the rush of endorphins he gets from helping is rivaled only by the feeling of his stylus against his tablet as he writes.

He’s written two novels so far, the first one about a lost trooper in a snowstorm, the second one, the latest one, about a smart mouthed princess, one who could secure entire planets in diplomatic meetings, and who could nail a fly from a mile away, given a gun. 

He likes his stories, his poems, his little universes where anything is possible. He gets to imagine interactions, see how things play out. 

He can’t do that in real life. He can sit and stare at people all he wants, see how they act, how they react, what they sound like, laugh like, cry like. He knows how they could react to any of his actions, but not which one they’d pick. He doesn’t like that. He can’t tell what people will do. 

That’s why he doesn’t like teams. He doesn’t know how everyone will act. His old teammates did not like him, they did not like his height, his stature, the fact that he did not talk to them much.

He would have talked had they tried to listen.

He likes talking, likes the slide of words as they come out of his mouth like water from the sky. Likes the sound they make, from high notes to rumbling keys, mouths shaping in perfect circles, wrinkled noses and tapping teeth. 

He supposes that it would be easier to talk if he had a team. It’s hard to imagine though, a new group. His last one went poorly, he had heard about the ripples his departure had caused. No one wanted to talk to him much, not that they ever did in the first place. 

He doesn’t mind, not much.

There’s a small bit of his brain that hopes for the best. Maybe the team will be nice? Maybe he’ll make friends? 

No. 

It’s better to stay in his room, waiting on orders that may never come. It’s better to sit on his bunk, writing stories about monsters and jedi and clone troopers like him, people who can be heroes and save the day and be charismatic and have friends.

It’s better to not talk to anyone. 

After all, if he stays away from the fire he won’t get burned.

He shifts when his door opens, looking up from his idle tablet to the officer in the doorway. Normally he would be in the general quarters, but he was moved down to a different sector a few nights before. It’s slightly unfortunate, Pope finds that he cannot sleep as well when he is on his own. It’s also unfortunate for whoever the officer is, he looks harried and stressed out, uniform crumpled in places it should not be. 

The officer beckons, jerking his hand towards the hallway, and says hurriedly, “ You’re being deployed to Kamino, report to the docking bay!” before running back the way he came from. 

Pope gets up, feeling the slight stretch from his ankles and thighs as he maneuvers towards his dresser, pulling out a too tight jacket to tie around his waist. Why bother with formality at this point? Any move he makes is criticized, and it’s not like anyone on Kamino would mind. The scientists there are more concerned with his ability to tear guns apart in his bare hands than they are with where he deems to put his jacket. He walks down the barren hallway, taking the stairs two steps at a time.

He’s waited long enough to get off the station, and even going to a water soaked ocean planet is better than empty space and nutrition packs. At least he’ll be doing something useful, instead of wasting his days making little to no progress on his next novel.

Writing without inspiration is hard, dammit. He wants to see something new soon, or he’s going to combust.

_ /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ _

He had found a rat. A womp rat, to be specific. Big boy, about the length of his wingspread. Good boy, he tried to eat one of Foxy’s shoes. What a fucking champ. 

He was gonna name him Jeb.

Foxy’s teammates did not approve of this decision. Foxy’s teammates thought he should throw Jeb out into space. Foxy’s teammates were a load of dickheads and did not appreciate the vast abilities Jeb had.

These abilities included, but were not limited to: annoying Commander Blith, eating people’s shoes, and being a general nuisance, all of which Foxy deemed quite useful.

His opinions were met with extreme opposition. I.e absolute blasphemy. 

This was  _ probably  _ why no one on his squad liked him.

Still, the announcement came as a surprise. It was phrased as a promotion, being moved to a different squad, but Foxy just knew it was a ploy to get rid of him. He wouldn’t stand for such hypocrisy, gods knew how much shit he had sat through from Commander Blith, smart as she was she was a fucking asshole sometimes, and every idea he had ( that would work! ) was shot down as soon as he even opened his mouth. Like, she’d let the other troopers suggest stuff, but not him! It was totally unfair!

With this in mind, Foxy stood up, a comms unit clenched between his thumb and his forefinger. He was gonna walk down to HQ, tell them exactly what he fucking thought of their stupid promotion, like where they could shove it, and go right back to his squad, who’d welcome him with open arms and Jeb would not try to eat his hand the next time he pet him and everything would be fine and dandy and -

“ The promotion is non-negotiable, soldier.”

What.

Ok, no. That’s not right. That can’t be right cause then that means that he has to go  _ back  _ to Kamino and he hadn’t planned on doing that until it was really necessary, I mean, his behaviour was top notch! He got a kriffing medal for gods’ sake! Everyone liked him, he was good in his position, and he did not want to move, thank you very much.

There’s surely been some mistake.

“ There is no mistake, soldier. We expect you to report to Kappa Sector at 0500 tomorrow. You are to bring all necessary supplies for the three day journey to get to Kamino. Dismissed.”

Yeah no, he’s fucked. 

See, he’s known how deep he’s been for years. Kind of. Does being alive for a year and a half count? He hopes it does because otherwise he’ll have to admit that he did not see this coming and he totally did, dammit, he saw this coming from a mile away, so why was there a pit in his stomach?

Sure, he knew it was coming but it didn’t have to come now, right when he was just righting himself from fucking Geonosis, like, he’s lucky to be a-fucking-live, why can’t the higher ups respect that? He’s a lucky fucking bastard, like, he saw some poor fuck’s team get blown straight to hell by a fuckin tank. That could have happened to him! But it didn’t! Cause he’s lucky! And this is bad luck! He shouldn’t have to move like this!

He’s still grumbling about it when he re-enters the barracks.

He’s not grumbling when he sees what’s going on. 

“ Foxy! We’ve baked a cake for you!” 

No.

No they did not, he was not doing this, they did not do that, god fuck those fucking traitors - there’s a sign and everything oh gods what did he do to deserve this mess - why do they look so  _ cheery _ , those traitorous bastards, and oh my gods where the hell is Jeb.

“ We even killed that rat for you! Since it ate all your shoes and all!”

You did what?

“ Yeah, put a shot through it’s head, it was dead before it even knew what was happening!”

Yeah, no. 

No, you did not just say that, sir. You did not just kill Jeb. 

Foxy looked out the window as he formulated his plan. The dishwashing duty was still open, he could switch some signs around and have the murderer assigned there instead and then he could just, he could just kill him, yeah? Quick and easy. So quick, no-one would know it was him, absolutely -

Jeb’s carcass drifted past the window.

Oh, fuck.

_ /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ _

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foxes, warriors, champions,- when will it all end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, good fuck. ow

_ /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ _

The padawan has been asking about the squad for hours. It’s verging on annoying, at least for the other masters. Master Lhin only finds herself smiling warmly at her charge, watching as they scamper about the meeting room, asking anyone who will listen about the status of the drop ship. No one has answers for them, but they do not care in the slightest. Lhin can only assume that their questions are fueled more by anxiety than they are by actual curiosity. Her padawan has never been curious, only cautious and searching, not for answers, but for meaning.

She still remembers the first day it happened. 

The vision.

It’s what started all of this after all.

She had been on her ship, the little sloop she had worked for years to buy. The ships were expensive, but the payoff was worth it when she saw her little one fawn over the shiny exterior. It wasn’t big at all, but it was roomy enough to house her and her charge, and that’s all she cared for. 

The sail had been in need of repair, so she and her padawan had set out to repair it in a secluded safe world, where the settlements nearby were more than happy to lend a few tools for the project. It was quiet, and it was peaceful, both of which pleased Rhe Lhin immensely. 

It wasn’t until the slight press of the force rested upon her mind that she even knew something was wrong. She turned around, expecting anything from a separatist attack to her charge burning themself, but was greeted with nothing. 

There was absolutely nothing amiss, just her padawan holding a sliver of metal tightly, and the sound of the waves from the far off shore.

There was nothing going on.

That was disconcerting. 

Lhin paused, because what if her charge were in distress? It didn’t look like it but the force was rarely wrong, and on a quiet and peaceful empty day, where the sky was clear for miles on either side, there was little that could be disturbed other than her and her padawan.

She worried her lips between her teeth, hesitating in front of her ship. She had taken care of the youngling for years now, they were almost of age to begin training with a lightsaber, and yet, she had no idea what to do. Approaching her child may scare them, and she would have no answers. 

So deep was she in thought that the small, plaintive noise that escaped her charge almost went unnoticed. It was a noise of pain, of hurt, and of confusion, tearing at Lhin’s heart until it was all she could do to not pick her charge up and check them for injuries.

Instead, she placed a tender hand on their shoulder, slowly turning them around until she could see their face, the face that so often looked at her with nothing short of adoration and happiness, the face that was now crumpled underneath a wrinkled blindfold. Carefully, as to not spook the child, Lhin unraveled the blind from her charge’s face, revealing scrunched and pained eyes, squeezed shut against what Lhin imagined to be the entire universe against them. 

“  _ Ani _ ,  _ ani _ , my  _ ani _ , please listen to my voice, ok?” There was a weak snuffle, followed by a slight murmur. Rhe bent down over her charge, goodness, the thing was barely the size of her torso, and they were already thirteen years of age. She shifted, intending only to ask her child to repeat what they had said, when they drew away, rubbing at their eyelids.

They had opened almost completely, leaving only a yellow membrane between them and the world. Lhin clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, gazing down at the youngling she held in her arms as they squirmed incessantly to be let go. This would not happen of course, not after worrying her so. She held still, keeping the wayward charge still. There would be no movement until something was explained.

Her padawan fixed her with almost luminous yellow eyes, outlined almost against the pale lavender of their skin like a light on a freighter. Lhin rolled her eyes, and let go.

Her charge absentmindedly rubbed at their arms before looking off into the distance, biting their lip like they would a potential meal.

“ I saw someth’n.” They mumbled, twisting their fingers over each other in an indiscernible pattern, “ There were four  _ anoon _ , around a  _ lynoi tol _ , and -”

“ Warrior chieftains? Were they Twi’lek?”

“ No, they were . . . they were  _ lyn chee’ron _ , with armor and no  _ lekku _ . I think they were humans? They were,” The padawan interlocked their pinkies, shaking them up and down once, “  _ Muchi muchi _ , friends.”

It was endearing, how they used Twi’leki to speak. Much less endearing was the description. Not many people could be described as snow warriors, much less chieftains. The thought of Lhin’s charge having this vision was sour, and Lhin found that the odd state her padawan had been in lined up with her experiences with the force.

The child had had a force vision. 

Normally, this would be cause for great celebration, as it showed talent and vigor in the force, as well as an advantage over other students. Yet Lhin could only find worry in her heart, deep, lurching anxiety that rolled over her veins and into her stomach, winding down to an empty and heavy stop near her intestines.

This was not good news at all.

In the following months and years, Lhin had hoped for the best. Maybe the vision was a one time thing, or perhaps it was never a force vision at all. Perhaps it was all a false alarm, and Lhin could go back to teaching with a light heart, instead of the heavy one she carried.

It never got better.

The visions were longer, the refractory periods shorter. Her charge would go days on end without taking the blindfold off, ears pressed solidly against their scalp as they navigated the ship blind and deaf. 

They would mutter about white warriors, about  _ chee _ , war. They would talk of armies and captains and blood and death.

It was a building battle, and Lhin did not want to see the finish.

The dam broke about three months before the first battle. Geonosis. 

The padawan had been having visions all week, ranging from homey visions of a family of five, four of which the mysterious  _ chee’ron _ , the last unidentifiable, to nightmares and terrors that kept them up screaming late into the night.

Lhin did what she could to help, but even she could do no more than try to wait it out. It worried her, not being able to do anything. She had read through countless data entries, had communed with elders, had tried meditations. 

Nothing worked.

On the worst night of them all, her charge had bolted upright from their cot, and had clumsily ran to Rhe Lhin’s quarters, where they stood shaking above her bed, reaching out towards her forehead. She had woken some hour into this, with her padawan staying completely silent save for panicked breaths and chittering teeth. 

Her kid, her  _ Ani _ , had just touched her forehead with feather-light fingers, curled over her, and started weeping into the thin blanket on the cot.

She didn’t know what to do.

They had been heading to a distress signal before, but Rhe Lhin switched the navigation over to Coruscant, in the hopes that the temple would provide some sort of help.

Recently, the nightmares had turned from one or two people dying to hundreds of thousands of them. Her charge would often come out of their bunk only to desperately heave into the waste compartment, throwing up whatever bile they had left in their stomach. They were sick, tired, and almost hallucinating. They would snap upright at the slightest noise, ears perking at attention before folding flat, and Lhin could swear that more than once she had heard the child engage in conversation with no one near. 

Coruscant had little to offer.

Even Master Yoda, infinite in wisdom, could only look at her charge with poorly hidden worry, and speak at great length about the troubling energy in the force.

There was one person left to talk to.

The librarian.

May the gods help her soul, this was going to be bad.

“ Force visions are common, dear.”

She knew. But these were unlike any she had ever seen. Her charge was reliving the same life over and over again, waking up screaming only to find that the events wouldn’t happen for quite some time. That was not normal. It was normal to get flashes.  _ Flashes _ . Just tiny bits of the future that help to guide one through the darkness and into the light. These visions seemed to be leading her charge  _ further _ into the darkness, not out of it.

“ I understand, however, the only advice I can give you is to make sure that the vision plays out.”

What now?

“ Even if the vision shows a war happening.”

No, no she couldn’t do that. She would not start a war simply because the force said it would happen. She was not doing that.

“ The war may have already begun, my child. You must keep your head on the surface, and listen to your padawan.”

She tried.

Geonosis happened, and it was like a bombshell had dropped.

White warriors.

Chieftains.

Clones, battles, war, death, and so much blood.

It was all happening. 

The visions continued, and with some careful prodding on Lhin’s part, she managed to get a grasp of their content.

There was a proud warrior, standing like a statue throughout the ages, broken and torn apart. There was a tall mandalorian, one with glowing white armor and a ragged cape. There were two foxes, one that walked on its hind legs and laughed like a jackal, and one that walked on all fours, growling and limping with a lame leg.

None of it made any sense, yet her padawan was adamant on the existence of these characters. They remarked upon them daily, telling Lhin that they had to be brought together soon, that if they did not meet now then the force would tilt and they would all lose their footings. 

Which is exactly why she found herself where she sat. 

She had been asked to take on a battalion, and after refusing, the council had practically begged her to “ Please take on a few clones, if not for your benefit then for your padawan.”

Goodness.

Originally she was planning on just selecting a few at random, maybe four or five, six at most. Her charge had different ideas, stealing the datapad one night to flip through all the optional recruits. They had come barreling up to Rhe Lhin not an hour later, holding out the datapad with four bookmarked entries selected.

She looked at them once, mugged at her charge, and looked at them again.

No, small child. We are not choosing these clones.

Please find another set.

“ No, Master please, just, that’s them! Those’re the ones that need to meet!”

Please tell me you’re joking.

“ A decommissioned commander, a sergeant that no one likes, a literal ghost story, and a badmouthing officer?”

“ Yeah, that’s them.”

My child, do not do this. 

The kid mugged right back at her, who even taught her that? That was so rude, where did they learn that from?

She chose the selected troopers.

Oh Goodness.

It had been a few weeks, and the kid was already off their rocker. They couldn’t keep still, talking the ear off anyone unfortunate enough to be in close proximity. This would have been amusing, had Rhe not been that person.

She did not think she had talked that much when she was a padawan.

“ You talked quite a lot as a padawan, my child!” 

No, Master Sinh, please do not laugh at me in front of my child. You are ruining me in their eyes. I have no power now.

Master Sinh was ruthless. He knew exactly what to say and when to say it to get Rhe to cringe, fold into herself, and get her padawan laughing. It was terrible, and not worth anything Rhe may have given to find the old bastard.

She was suffering in the cycle of the humor, the jokes, and the cruel tricks. This was unfair. Master Sinh was a disgrace to all things Twi’lek, with his Tchun-tchin waving pointedly in the air like a lunatic. She did not understand why everyone respected him, had they ever met him they would know that he was a jovial old fool who enjoyed messing with his students' mentalities until they felt like melting into the floorboards for fear of revealing how much of an embarrassment they were to others. 

He was terrible, and he absolutely knew it.

He would go on and on and on about meaningless nonsense during meetings, every so often meeting Lhin’s eyes as he talked about  _ electrical prices _ and winking, goodness did this man even have a life anymore, Lhin could have sworn that he was only half as curmudgeonly the last time she had landed on Coruscant, over 7 years before. 

Thus her new predicament. She was stuck in a gods knew how long meeting until  _ someone _ finished talking, and her padawan would not even stay in their seat! Not that they had a seat, not really, but they could have sat on the ground. Surely. 

But no, instead they steadily and stealthily moved from seat to seat, looking over shoulders onto datapads and scaring the kriff out of a few masters and knights. It was not amusing at all.

Ok, maybe it was a little amusing, but not by much! Lhin was still stuck in her seat, being respectable enough to stay where she was told until the meeting was over, but she couldn’t help but wonder: when was the drop ship arriving?

They had been waiting for over a month now, the only sign of progress being a slowly growing height of anxiety from the youngest of the two. And by slow she meant not slow at all because the kid had taken one look at the registered list and had plastered themself to a window, practically glued to it as they searched the sky with half lidded eyes. 

It was adorable in a convoluted and weird way. The kid, who was barely even a kid at this point, they were just about seventeen, once they got to their twentieth they would become a knight, was watching out the window for the literal men of their dreams. It was wild, to be honest. Lhin never thought that being a parent -

No.

Remember the force.

They’re just your charge, nothing more.

Nothing more.

There was a tap at the meeting door.

The drop ship had arrived.

_ /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twi'leki translations
> 
> ani: desired  
> Anoon: warrior chieftains  
> lynoi tol: white fire  
> lyn chee'ron: snow warriors  
> lekku: Twi'lek headtails  
> Muchi: friends (in here it is repeated twice in a child-like fashion, like how one says "like-like" instead of love: very good friends)  
> Chee: war  
> Chee'ron: warriors  
> Tchun-tchin : both twi'lek headtails


End file.
